Mystery
Aurelius Ascends (part 2)
Geneva, Earth The arcane bunker, which, for secrecy and privacy, could be accessed only via sublevel two of the local hospital's main electrical backup department, was currently housed there for clandestine reasons. It had previously been accessible only via a series of 320 abruptly descending stone steps to reach the 192-foot sheer depth (58.5 meters), and was originally fitted with cheap wooden railings on both sides for stability, alongside electrically powered bulbs for lighting; those had failed over the years, making the trip down increasingly unreliable when making the descent to the bunker, particularly as the deeper down someone went, the more the stone walls and steps had been damaged by natural surface water seeping in through the rock face.
By Jonathan Townendabout a month ago in Fiction
Taking the prohibited path
You may have heard that curiosity killed the cat, and yet you can't resist the urge to investigate where you should not go. Over and over, you have been warned not to go into the wooded area behind your home, but you feel beckoned.
By Cheryl E Prestonabout a month ago in Fiction
Summer Snow. Honorable Mention in Out of Season Challenge. Top Story - September 2026.
The first snowflake landed in my champagne. For a second, I thought it was ash. It was Christmas Day in Queensland, the sort of day where the heat was suffocating. It sat on your shoulders and pressed against your skin until everything stuck – hair to neck, dress to spine, thighs to chairs. The tiles around the pool were almost too hot to walk on, the air above the barbecue shimmered, and the cicadas screamed from the gums beyond the back fence.
By Emilie Turnerabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
When Right is Wrong
(Out of Season) The designer gown, made from yards and yards of Charmeuse silk draped with Chantilly lace, was stunning; I had to admit. Even though it was my mother’s choice, not mine. “Your father and I want everything to be perfect,” she’d chided when I objected that it simply wasn't me. In truth, I preferred not wearing one at all. Not to this wedding. Not for the man who'd be waiting at the altar.
By Liz Montanoabout a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Wire Song.. Content Warning.
The winter hunger isn't a rumble in your belly; it is a hollow, driving madness that consumes your entire mind. For six grueling months, you haven't been a girl named Sara. You haven't worn your heavy hiking boots or thought about a home back in Maine. Something deep and unexplainable broke inside your psyche under the weight of everything that you carry, and you fled, trapped entirely inside the thick, striking coat of a fox.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
